


We'll Figure it Out

by Amalveor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort, Episode: s03e20 Death Benefit, Established Relationship, M/M, Missing Scene, Stress Relief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 14:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18693616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amalveor/pseuds/Amalveor
Summary: Another missing scene set during Death Benefit, this time with established relationship Finch and Reese.Finch and Reese are staying in a hotel while they tail their latest number. When they get a brief period of downtime, Finch is stressed and Reese thinks he just needs to relax.





	We'll Figure it Out

"Been a while since we were chasing a number on our own, Finch."

Reese's voice was warm. He sounded happy, even relaxed. Harold had absolutely no idea how he managed to accomplish it given the gravity of their situation. With Miss Groves taking Shaw on mysterious errands and he and John receiving a number in DC, along with the constant threat from their friends at Decima, there wasn't much to be relaxed about. 

"This is not a vacation, Mr Reese." he warned. He frowned at his computer screen. Creating a secret service alias for Reese that would pass the security checks they employed was proving to be exactly as difficult as he had imagined. Perhaps impossible by tomorrow morning.

With the extra protection around their number there had been no feasible way to have eyes on the congressman tonight. Reese had followed Finch back to the hotel instead, and secured the room in a way that Finch would usually have deemed wholly unnecessary and now begrudgingly accepted.

When he’d finished setting up the tripwires that Harold desperately hoped none of the housekeeping staff would get injured by, Reese came to sit opposite him to watch him work. 

Finch was usually glad of the other man's company; he could use him as a sounding board, talk through whatever process he was working on. Reese had the training and intelligence to know some of what he was talking about, and it was comforting to talk at someone, rather than to himself for a change. That evening, however, his presence was a distraction and an irritation. 

"Nothing I can do until morning. Might as well put my feet up before I get my new job," Reese said. Although he didn't make any move to literally put his feet up, he did sit back in his chair, comfortable and content.

"Be that as it may, I'm sure you can find a way to entertain yourself that does not involve simply sitting there."

He must have sounded sterner than he meant to because Reese looked at him quickly, concern showing in his face. "Are you sure you're alright, Harold?"

His voice was soft, and he said Harold's name the way he always did when he was serious, with a quiet almost reverence. It was that which made him answer honestly.

“I may have said these were ‘strange times,’ Mr Reese, but that does not begin to cover what we might be dealing with. Our control over our own lives becomes less by the day, and I'm afraid creating an alias for you and getting you assigned to the congressman is not going to be possible by the morning. Given another day..." he trailed off, hopelessly. An agent had already been assigned to begin protecting the congressman from 9am. Changing the assignment over to Reese would be possible, if he could forge his employment. Which he couldn't, not in the time available. They would have to bug the real secret service agent instead.

"Not like you to say something's impossible."

"It is exactly like me, Mr Reese, if something is indeed impossible." He closed the various connections he had opened to spoof his identity to the server he was accessing. "I'm a realist."

Reese hummed a disagreeing noise, but didn't press the issue. Harold was glad. He was irritated. There was a tension between his eyes that could easily become a headache if he let it, and he felt useless. If he was honest, he was irritated that Reese had decided to start shooting at their number before asking Harold whether it would be possible to place him undercover. Although- no. If he were truly being truthful that wasn’t it. He was always pleased when Reese assumed he was able to do something, just blindly trusted him. He was instead, entirely irritated with himself. This time Reese had trusted him to do something he couldn’t do, and that was a distinctfly unpleasant feeling

"We'll get ears on our secret service guy instead," Reese said pragmatically. "And maybe it's a good thing. An evening of down time, some decent sleep." 

Harold ignored the words but did kill the script that was bypassing the hotel's pay per hour service, along with the one anonymising his MAC address. The suddenly empty screen glared accusingly back at him.

Reese watched him silently for a moment and then reached across the table to take Harold's hand in his own. The rough pad of his thumb stroked back and forth and he smiled just slightly. "You'll work much better if you're relaxed, Harold. And so will I."

Harold swallowed. He wanted to tell Reese that there was too much to do. He might accept that some sleep was a necessary requirement but everything else was irrelevant and should remain so until they had sorted their many problems. He didn't say anything.

Reese kept their hands together, but stood, crossing to Harold's side of the table, and pulled him to standing as if they were about to dance. 

"Mr Reese," he said, firmly. But he wasn't sure what came next. Harold thrived on rules, on boundaries, and the infrequency of this side of their relationship was confusing. Currently, it was also a distraction they shouldn't afford themselves. But it felt like a long time since John had touched him like that, with that warm, intent look in his eyes. 

John stepped close and slid his arms around Harold and Harold pressed his face into John's neck and breathed him in. He was broad and strong, solid and comforting. He smelt faintly of the cologne Harold had bought him. It had been two years ago, back when things were easier. The story was that it was to fit a cover identity, but in reality, Harold had just liked it. It made him think of John, who had worn it for so long now that the scent was associated in his mind with the safe familiarity of his presence. 

He tried to relax into the embrace, but he was too frustrated. He felt too warm, too annoyed with both John and himself. And then in the same breath he was irritated that he was irritated. It had been too long since they had been able to spend time alone, and he would have liked to throw aside his worries as easily as John and enjoy it.

John pulled back slightly, just far enough that he could press his lips to Harold's temple, then his cheek. "Is there anything we can do until morning?" he asked, the rumble of his deep voice against Harold's ear.

"There is always something we _can_ do, Mr Reese."

"For McCourt?"

He sighed. "There is _always more_. But something that would make a real difference? Probably not."

"Then relax."

"As I'm sure you can imagine, one's ability to relax is directly related to the number of times you are told to.” It was meant to come out with a sort of dry humor, the kind they exchanged every day, but instead it sounded cold, even to his own ears. 

Something that was not quite anger flashed in Reese's eyes and he grabbed the lapels of Finch's jacket with a snap of fabric. He pulled, hard and stared down at him. "We are going to be fine."

"Perhaps." He was pulling back against Reese's hold and the fabric pressed tight into the back of his neck.

"No. We will."

"We would certainly be better off if we talked through solutions before shooting haphazardly at the people we're trying to protect," Finch bit back.

"My shooting's never haphazard, Finch." He leaned in close and, before the other man could argue, pressed his mouth to his.

There was a roar of white noise in Finch's ears. He was furious. Furious without real reason, and that fact would make it all the worse if he only had the mental processing power left to think about it. John was still holding onto him, trapping him with hands and mouth, and Harold felt his anger burst forward, it's force directed the only way it could go: towards John. 

He kissed him back, a forceful press of lips, again and again. His hands curled on John's chest, balling expensive fabric into his grasp. He pushed against the firm muscle, hard enough to leave bruises and John held fast, pulling him closer. His arms ached and John tilted his head and forced their mouths apart, tongues meeting. This was not how they did things. They went slowly, were gentle with each other.

Finch bit down on John's lip, hard, certainly too hard to be pleasurable. But then John gave a noise that was all pleasure- a deep groan- and Harold didn't have time to think about his misjudgement. He dug his fingers into John's sides instead and shoved until his body thudded hard against the wall. His mouth was suddenly out of range, head tipped back with the force, but his throat was there. Harold scraped teeth across the skin there, reaching the stubble at his jaw, letting it rasp across his lips. 

Then they were kissing again, hard, wet and messy, pushing his glasses into the side of his face. John took all the force he gave and drew him in for more, hands dragging at Finch's back to pull them closer. 

"Harold." John turned his head to gasp a breath and Finch ignored him, taking the opportunity to suck at the newly reachable skin along the side of his throat. When that wasn't enough, he bit down. "Harold," John said again. His voice was hoarse now, strained. He wondered whether he could steal it from him completely. 

He drew John towards him, stroking the hair at the back of his head, soft as silk where there wasn’t anything slicking it back. John looked at him curiously- tenderness but also something wary in his expression. The sharp change in it when Harold dug his nails into his scalp and dragged down through his hair was perfect. 

"Bedroom, Mr Reese."

John didn't say anything, just stared and nodded, but a badly hidden smile flickered across his face as he obeyed. 

They were well past the need of new couples to undress each other and yet Harold still felt a desperate need to touch as John unbuttoned his shirt. He was just so incredibly beautiful. Strong and solid. The sight of him sent a combined jolt of warmth and rage through him, not at John exactly but at everything, the desperate situation he could feel gathering around them. He was so grateful for this and yet it seemed so terribly unfair that they had found each other and would most likely die together without ever having known peace together. Sometimes he felt simply glad that they were in it alongside one another, sometimes he even felt a poetic appreciation of the whole tragic drama. Most often, he felt guilt. Just then he felt the anger, the unfairness. 

John looked at him like he was considering something. He had stripped quicker than Harold and was standing in his boxers while Harold still wore his undershirt. He stepped towards Harold and gripped his arm. When Harold pulled away, he snatched it back, the tips of his fingers almost painful. 

John kissed him then, slowly, before biting down hard, mimicking Harold's earlier action. The pain was almost a relief, a release of something he'd been holding in. He groaned, both the feeling and the sound taking him by surprise.

Then he was on the bed, and John was undressing him, clumsily. Harold wanted to push him off and do it himself but with every bit of skin John uncovered he kissed and sunk his teeth in, and the feel of it kept him down. Instead he fought back with his hands, his nails longer than John's, able to scrape satisfyingly hard against skin. He was hesitant, still holding back, but John's kisses grew fewer and his bites harder and Harold was lost, pouring his anger into him. 

They didn't speak, a contrast to the gentle times before, but he didn’t think he’d ever heard John make a sound like he did when Harold raked his nails across his chest. He didn’t think they had ever been so free with one another. And then he couldn't think at all as John pulled his underwear down in a tug and bit hard at the flesh of his hip. It was a sharp, deep pain, and the noise he made sounded far away and inhuman.

John immediately pulled away. "Are you alright?" He pressed a hand to Harold's chest and moved up to face him. "I'm sorry," he said, when he didn't reply.

He looked so worried. There were deep red scratches running from his chest to his neck, and his face was flushed, and Harold couldn’t quite find the words he needed to reassure him. 

He breathed. The long shaky exhale turned suddenly to a laugh and John frowned in surprise. It was so comical he kept laughing. A round bruise, newly forming on his chest, ached with the movement, dull and pleasant, and John looked utterly bewildered, but then, after a second, cautiously happy. He smiled lopsidedly down at Harold who reached up to cup his face in his hand. 

"Are you okay?" John asked again. "Did I hurt you?"

"Yes," he said, as an answer to both. "And I enjoyed it." He smiled and felt himself blush at the words. It wasn't like him to be so ineloquent. But, having started, he may as well carry on. "I'd like very much for you to fuck me now," he said.

John looked amused. "Are you sure?"

“Hmm," he hummed in agreement and pulled John down towards him to kiss him. It was warm and slow, indulgently gentle.

"Supplies?" John asked, already moving down the bed and away.

"In the side of my bag.”

Harold took the opportunity to pull his feet free of the underwear which was still caught at his ankles. He had a self imposed rule that he would always unpack when he arrived at a new hotel room, but as he appeared to have broken that today, there was little harm in breaking another. He kicked his clothes off the end of the bed and didn't think about the fabric wrinkling against the floor.

The light clicked off in the other room and John returned holding Harold's toiletry bag. He was smiling. His skin was flushed and his boxers were tented, precome pooled at the tip and darkening the fabric. Harold looked and was so consumed with equal measures of affection and desire for the other man, that there was no longer any room for the tension or the anger. 

John ran a hand up Harold's leg as he perched on the edge of the bed, one hand rummaging lazily in the bag.

"Ever the Boy Scout, Finch," he grinned, finally finding what he wanted amongst the collection of other items.

"I'm not sure they'd have me, Mr Reese" He grabbed John's arm, drawing him close. "I can think of nothing worse than a camping trip."

He grinned, and Harold held off on kissing him for a moment, just to look at him. Then he pulled him down until he was stretched out against him, propped up on his elbow and kissing him. 

It was almost perfect, John laid out beside him, languid and beautiful in the amber light of the hotel room, kissing him like there was all the time in the world. But he was greedy, and while John's tongue was slow against Harold's, his body was pressing insistently against him. 

Harold reached between them and popped the small bottle deftly open, slicking John’s cock without ever breaking concentration from the kiss. John took over from there. He was always so good at taking direction, even when it was unsaid. It was one of the things Harold appreciated most about him.

John lifted him slightly to prop up his hips and then he was pushing into him, slow and strong and careful. Harold let his eyes close and his head fall back with the sensation. John was right, this was what he needed, what they both needed. 

“Come here,” Harold said, and reached for John, sliding his hands up his back, wanting him nearer. And of course, John did exactly what he needed, leaning down so that he was over Harold, covering him. 

“Okay?” he asked against Harold’s neck.

“Yes,” he said. And then, although it was difficult to get the words out with John rocking into him, his body pressing perfectly against Harold’s cock with every thrust, “Slowly, please. I’d like to stay like this for as long as we can."

Later, John lay alongside him, his bare skin pressed against Harold’s and an arm drawn protectively across his chest, and Harold was either too tired or too content to feel the pain that should have been in his neck, telling him he couldn’t possibly sleep that way. His eyes were closed and his mind too filled with the sensation of John holding him to make room for any of the things that had disturbed his sleep of late. 

“Harold?” John’s voice broke gently through the fog and he hummed a not quite awake response.

There was a long pause and Harold could hear as John opened his mouth to speak, almost did, and then stopped again. Instead there was warm breath against his face and warm lips pressing soft kisses to his cheek, and his hair. He sighed and reached a lazy hand to stroke John’s face, feeling the furrow of a frown between his eyebrows. 

“You were right,” Harold said, and felt the frown ease a little, “I do feel much more relaxed.” He felt John’s smile, and heard the soft amused exhale of breath. 

“Good.” 

Then he was pushing gently on Harold’s shoulder, urging him to turn over, to get into a position he could sleep in. And he was moving, John helping, half lifting Harold to slip the extra pillow he needed beneath his head, just because he could, just because he enjoyed taking care of him.

Harold was half way to sleep in the seconds it took for John to return to lying at his side, pressing his warmth close along Harold’s body, and draping his arm back over him, drawing the comforter with it. 

“We’ll figure it out,” John said then, his voice gravelled and soft. “We’ll figure it all out.”


End file.
